


in the hands of love

by tosca1390



Category: Amour et Chocolat Series - Laura Florand
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-12-01 12:36:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11486532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tosca1390/pseuds/tosca1390
Summary: Everything he makes, he makes with her in mind. Has from the first. She wants to give in kind, if not on the grand scale.





	in the hands of love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [magisterequitum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magisterequitum/gifts).



> For Jordan on the occasion of her birthday.

*

In the fourth month of her pregnancy, Summer’s morning sickness finally released its grip on her appetite. It’s a relief in multiple ways: she wants to be at the restaurant more, to participate in the business management aspect as she and Luc decided she should. Now she can also kiss Luc as soon as he comes home from the dinner service, when he is glowing and damp with sweat at his brow, smelling of caramel and lavender. When Patrick and Nic bring her leftovers and trials, or samples from the local farms, she can appreciate them with gusto, instead of politely ducking out of the room for a saltine cracker. 

It also means that she can resume a practice she began a few short months ago, first in her suite at the Leuce, and then in his Paris apartment and their home here in the south of France. She can cook a meal for her potato-chip addicted husband before he goes to the restaurant in the morning, and when he comes home at night. She has plenty of tasks and projects to fill her days – planning for the baby, working on the language for her teaching fellowships, fulling reconnecting with her cousins, looking for teaching placements, planning for their trip in two months to the islands. But she has missed caring for Luc in this way. She loves him fully but knows he has a blind spot when it comes to his own well-being. His drive is single-minded, and his focus is often on her, especially with Patrick here to help at the restaurant. 

Besides, everything he makes, he makes with her in mind. Has from the first. She wants to give in kind, if not on the grand scale. 

On a dry, breezy weekday evening in July, with night settling heavily across the sea, Summer mixes farm fresh eggs in a small mixing bowl, sturdy yet a beautiful ocean blue. When they picked out this kitchenware, Luc made an offhand comment about it matching her eyes. It stirs something in her chest every time she cooks for him in these bowls, in this kitchen that is theirs. 

She pours out cream and sets the bottle on the stone countertop, the glass clinking. To keep her company, she has on her pop playlist, piping through the wireless speakers Patrick hooked up weeks ago. Patrick is in Paris right now, visiting with Sarah. They will move here at the end of August, to their own little apartment in town. It will be good to have another friend to call her own here, Summer thinks. Cade and Jamie visit every two weeks, and are planning a baby shower for her. And they will all go to the States for Jamie and Dom’s wedding, in September. 

_We have a family,_ Summer thinks to the baby, her stomach a gentle curve. She sets the fork down to smooth her t-shirt over her belly, one of Luc’s. 

Humming to the music, she whisks the eggs and adds chopped basil, salt, pepper. There is bread to be buttered, and a salad waiting in the fridge. She even tried her hand at good old American chocolate chip cookies today, as she was on a remote conference call with the Berkeley engineers Sarah set her up with. Some of them are a little too brown about the edges, but she knows now that perfection is not about appearance. It is about intention, and care. 

They are both still learning that perfection isn’t the be-all end-all. 

Summer takes the eggs to the stove, pouring the mix into the cast-iron pan. As it sizzles and sets, she drops fresh mozzarella and grated parmesan in, and stirs gently. With a practiced hand, she places the skillet into the oven and sets the timer. She’s really quite competent in their kitchen. Nothing worth a Michelin star, but it makes her happy. 

A breeze floats through the kitchen, catching the edges of her pajama shorts. She pushes her hair over her shoulders to rest down her back, tapping her toes to the beat of the music. As she washes up the used mixing bowls and utensils, she tilts her head and hums. The house smells of lemon, sea salt, and lavender. She looks at the grocery list, posted on the side of the refrigerator, and wonders whether the local street market will have cucumber for a summer salad. 

She shuts off the faucet and dries her hands, looking out the window over the sink. The arbor sits, waiting for their child. The water is out there in the starry darkness, calm and easy. She can see nearly as many stars here as when she’s looking up from the island. 

A tall dark reflection walks up behind her, but she smiles. Warm wide hands go to her hips and a mouth touches the side of her neck. The smell of almond and lemon and vanilla surrounds her as a strong chest hovers at the curve of her back. 

“ _Bonne nuit_ , Summer,” her husband murmurs against her skin. 

“You’re early,” she says, letting her damp hands settle over his. One of his dark hands settles over the curve of her stomach. He’s not shy about touching her any longer; he seems to love and appreciate the changes in her body, even when she struggles. He is her biggest supporter. 

Tonight, though, she is content. 

Luc smiles against the thin skin of her throat, kissing along the curve there. She settles back against the solid strength of him, sighing. “I am. I missed you.”

“You saw me eight hours ago,” she says with a smile. She spent the morning and early afternoon in the office he made her, working with Nic on the accounting for the past week. Luc came in just as she was leaving, gifting her with a croissant slathered in chocolate hazelnut spread and filled with late strawberries as she passed through his side of the kitchen. 

Summer turns in his arms and sniffs at his familiar black button-down shirt, right at his throat. “Almonds,” she whispers. 

His hands stroke up and down the line of her back, his mouth near her temple. His fingers twist and smooth in her hair. “I brought you home a sample. Almond sponge, vanilla cream, candied lemon.”

She hums and kisses his collarbone, where the collar of his shirt lays open. “Thank you.”

His wide hands – always gentle, even when he wants her with ferocity – flex on the small of her back, hot through her thin shirt. “Are you cooking for me, Summer?” 

Nodding, she nestles closer to him. The curve of her belly presses against his. “Nothing fancy.”

Luc kisses the top of her head. “From your hands, it is everything.”

He still knows how to make her blush. She tips her head back to look at him. His gaze is dark and warm, his hands a smoldering touch at the line of her waist. When he looks at her so, she does feel like the sun, warmed through. Like softening butter or choux pastry, malleable for him. Her bare toes curl against the cool tile. 

“Luc,” she whispers. 

A dark eyebrow quirks upward. “Here?”

She wriggles against him, biting her bottom lip. “You don’t want to?”

In answer, he steps backwards towards the island, bringing her with him. He turns her around and picks her up with ease, setting her down on the counter. Immediately her legs part and she scoots to the edge of the counter, laughing softly. He steps into the cradle of her thighs and takes her face in both his hands, smoothing the flyaways of her hair away from her face. 

“Always,” he murmurs, kissing her forehead, the rise of her cheekbones, marking a path to her lips. She shivers and curls her hands into his shirt, crinkling the fabric. Her nails clack against the buttons. 

“The eggs have thirty minutes,” she whispers against his lips. 

He smiles and kisses her again, searching out the taste of her with his tongue, slow and sweet. His hands trail over her breasts and belly, searching for the hem of her t-shirt. The soft slide of cotton against her bare skin creates sensation she feels in her belly and between her thighs, warming to his touch. She shifts and sighs as his hands glide over her bare skin, tracing the lines from her bathing suit over her shoulders and at the edges of her breasts. His mouth falls to her clavicle, his fingertips grazing the underside of her breasts. She shifts her hips, whimpering softly. 

Looking up, he stills his hands on her ribcage. “Are you too sensitive?” he murmurs. 

She shakes her head, touching the five o’clock shadow on his jaw. Her heart is full of want and desire and love. “I’m fine.”

He turns into her touch, wearing his physicality like an animal, all sensation. “Tell me if it is too much,” he says, kissing her palm. 

Then, his hands cup her breasts and he mouths at the filling curves, the dusky nipples. He licks and she whimpers, feeling the pull of want in her cunt. Her hands tangle in the smooth black waves of his hair, like the ocean in the darkness. She inhales sea air and the scent of her husband, her own desire as he licks and mouths at her breasts. The growth on his jaw rubs at her skin, flushing as her face does. 

Luc groans her name as he kisses down the rise and fall of her belly, his hands following at the sides. She wiggles, gasping, and lifts her hips as he hooks his fingers under the band of her pajama shorts and pulls them down.

“We will have to clean,” she gasps as her butt touches the cool counter, smooth against her skin. She’s never been quite so exposed and shivers, looking at the floating lights above her. 

Luc laughs huskily, and rises to his full height. “I have wanted you here since we moved in, _soleil_ ,” he murmurs, reaching behind him to the light switches near the sink. He lowers the lights, shadowing them in a soft golden glow. “I dreamed of it. Spreading you out like so. Your hair down around your breasts. Your skin like silk.”

She shivers, the whole of her flushed pink. He strips himself of his shirt and drops it to the tiled floor. “Are you too cold?” he asks as he undoes his belt and shoves off his jeans. In his black boxer-briefs, the hard jut of his erection catches her eye. 

“No,” she whispers, reaching for him. 

He comes to her, kissing her breathless before he sinks to his knees. Her hands fall to his shoulders, his dark loose hair. She inhales sharply as he kisses and nips along the inside of one thigh, and then the other. His clever artist hands touch her, come away slick with desire. An electric shudder shimmers through her, heat rising to her skin. 

Every sensation is specific; the press of his thumb against her clit, the gentle sink of his teeth into her thigh. She can feel his breath against her skin. He slips his fingers into dusky blonde curls and into her as his mouth licks into her cunt. Goosebumps rise all over her body and she gasps. Two fingers curling inside, his mouth searching her out as if she was a new flavor, she curls her hands tightly into his hair. His growl reverberates against her and she nearly shrieks, her heels digging into the lean muscle of his back. Hair falls across her shoulders and face as she shudders and breathes, arching her back. He takes his time, working her up and then backing away, leaving her on the edge of orgasm until she chokes out his name and tugs on the thick dark hair between her fingers. Then, he places his mouth to the heart of her, and she moans as she comes, a long slow sweet slide of pleasure. 

When she regains her breath, he is still on his knees, a supplicant. His mouth, wet from her, trails along the smooth tan skin of her inner thigh. He watches her with dark eyes, desire a flame between them. 

She smooths her hands through his hair and cups his face. “Come here.”

He rises and kisses her, his hands twining in her hair. She tastes herself, a dark contentment stealing over her as she pushes off his briefs and circles her grip around his erection. He groans hard into her mouth as she strokes him. His hands cup her hips and angle her body as he steps to the counter. With her slim fingers there, he enters her with a low moan, ripped from his belly. She wraps her arms around him and runs her fingernails over the tightening muscles of his back as he works in her, his thrusts easy. They kiss until they’re both breathless, and then she kisses along the taut line of his neck and bites at his shoulders. She does not come again but when he sinks into her with a shudder, she strokes him through his own orgasm, whispering against his temple and into his hair as he presses his face into her neck. 

“ _Je t’aime_ ,” he murmurs and she holds him close, smoothing his hair. 

Later, he dresses her with care and sits her at the other end of the island as he wipes down the counter. 

“I should do that. You’ve just come from all that,” she says, plaiting her mussed hair into a braid that sweeps over her shoulder to rest at her breast. 

He fixes a look at her. “Summer, please.”

Rolling her eyes, she smiles and plays with the end of her braid. A hand rests lightly on her belly. “There’s salad and bread to go with the eggs.”

He puts away the cleaning supplies under the sink and walks over to her, kissing her softly. “It will be delicious, because you made it.”

“I’m happy to do it once more,” she says. 

Luc smiles, a wide soft one she knows is reserved just for her, and places his hand over hers on her belly. “How is she today?”

She shakes her head. “We don’t know that it's -" she begins, and then just sighs. "She’s very well,” she says with a laugh. He is insistent that it will be a girl. Summer just wants them all to be happy. 

Rubbing her belly gently, he leans over and kisses her gently. “How are you?”

“Good,” she whispers.

He strokes his free hand over her cheek and along the line of her braid. “Good,” he says, kissing her once again. 

The timer for the oven chimes then. She slips from her stool with his hand on her elbow, and goes to the oven. As she takes out the skillet, the eggs golden brown, Luc goes to the fridge and pulls out the salad and fetches the baguette. They sit together at the small nook in the corner of the kitchen, where she often takes her breakfast. When he digs in, he eats with gusto, complimenting her with his eyes. She sips seltzer water, nibbles at a cookie, and listens as he tells her of the night’s service; she then tells him of her calls. Their hands lay joined on the tabletop between them. 

It is simple, and it is full of love. 

*


End file.
